by Ruth Mancini
I listen to him in silence until he’s finished. He’s convincing enough, but I don’t believe him. He’s hurt Ben. He had the opportunity, the means to get onto the ward that night and hurt Finn. And what happened to George... there’s more to it than he’s telling me, that’s for sure. Why would he hold himself responsible for his brother’s death if what happened was an accident? Why would a five-year-old carry this much guilt? Did he push George into the water – is that what really happened? And did the au pair witness what he did? Is that why she was sent away?
I watch Alex out of the corner of my eye as he sits back down and puts his head in his hands again, the heels of his palms covering his eyes, his fringe flopping forward and sliding through his fingers.
I reach over and pull my phone out of my bag. Alex lifts his head and watches me for a moment, unsure of me, unsure of what I’m going to do next. I turn to face him and look directly into his eyes. ‘I’m going to see Ben now,’ I tell him. ‘But first, I’m going to call the police. I want you to stay here and wait for them. If you ever loved me, if I ever meant anything to you, you’ll stay here and wait for them – and then you’ll tell them the truth.’
Alex looks back at me for a moment. He swallows hard and at first his lips tighten, but then he nods. He stands up and pushes his hands deep into his pockets – a familiar, diffident gesture that I recognise so well. He waits for a moment, watching me. I can see that he doesn’t know quite how to say goodbye.
I look back at him for a moment, at the eyes I’ve gazed into, at the mouth I’ve kissed, at the hair I’ve stroked, at the body I’ve loved. And then I brush past him abruptly and head towards the stairs to the wards, without looking back.
19
It’s late, but Anna’s awake, thankfully. I tell her as much as I can and, in her calm, patient way, she listens without interruption, simply telling me not to worry about anything and to get some rest. I toss and turn all night on my camp bed, while Ben sleeps a peaceful, seemingly dreamless sleep beside me. Anna arrives at nine with a copy of the Guardian and two Starbucks cappuccinos and settles herself down in the armchair next to Ben’s bed, to wait for the consultants to do their rounds.
‘I really appreciate this,’ I tell her. ‘I hope that he’s OK for you. But if he’s anything like he was the last time, he’ll just sleep all day. If there was ever a good day to leave him with anyone, this is the one.’
‘We’ll be just fine, won’t we, Ben? Your mummy doesn’t need to worry about us.’ She leans over and strokes his head. Ben responds by flipping over onto his tummy and flinging out his arm.
I hand her the key to my flat and kiss Ben goodbye.
‘Anna? Don’t let him out of your sight, will you?’ I ask her. ‘Promise me? If they discharge him, or if they don’t. You need to be with him at all times. The police can only hold Jay for twenty-four hours without charging him. Even if they have enough evidence to do that, he could be released on bail.’
Anna nods. ‘I will. I promise. Tim’s on his way, so there will be two of us to stand guard.’
She folds the newspaper and places it on Ben’s night-stand. She lifts the lid of her coffee cup and blows at the froth on top. ‘Do you think he might have Munchausen’s by Proxy?’ she asks. ‘Jay, I mean. I had a case once. That was the diagnosis.’
‘What happened?’ I ask.
‘Well, similar to you. The child kept getting sick and ending up in hospital, basically. Although it had gone on for much longer. The child was seven and had spent most of her childhood on a hospital ward, poor thing – she even had a number of operations. The mother went to elaborate lengths to convince everybody, including me, that her daughter was seriously unwell, describing all manner of symptoms.’
‘So how did they find out that it was her all along?’
‘It was just a suspicion at first. Some of the symptoms she described just didn’t appear to be borne out. The daughter was removed from her mother and placed into foster care, where she miraculously became well again and began to thrive.’
I think about this for a minute. Finn was removed from Ellie and placed with the Barrington-Browns for nearly two months without anything happening. Also, Jay has had access to him at St Martin’s ever since. If he wanted to stage another injury or illness, create his next medical emergency, it would have been really easy for him to do. But, on the other hand, Finn nearly died and Ellie’s on trial for attempted murder. All eyes are on Finn. It would be crazy to attempt anything now, especially when Ellie’s not around to take the blame, when she might have an alibi.
‘I think it’s something like that,’ I tell Anna. ‘Some kind of attention-seeking behaviour. He admitted to me that he thrives on the drama. Something happened to his twin brother when they were children. He says that George fell into a lake, but I think Jay might have pushed him. His brother had a severe neurological condition, like Ben’s. He couldn’t walk or talk or do anything for himself. Jay says he loved his brother, but I’m wondering if he was jealous of the attention that George was getting because of his disability, or if he somehow got it into his head that George was better off dead, that he needed to commit some kind of mercy killing.’
‘Even though he was only five?’
‘Maybe.’
‘And then he tried to do the same to Ben?’
‘Well, yes. Or maybe he didn’t intend to kill either of them. Maybe he only wanted to create a life-threatening situation and then be the one to save them. Maybe with Finn, something went wrong.’
‘Hmm. Well, it’s possible. But that’s a lot of “maybes”,’ Anna says. ‘Can you prove any of it?’
I shake my head. ‘Not yet.’
Anna frowns. ‘The trial starts on Monday, doesn’t it?’
I nod. ‘I know. I don’t have much time. I’ll see you later. I’ll call you.’ I pick up my bag. ‘I’m pretty certain Ben’s going to be just fine. Whatever Alex’s mental state, whatever is wrong with him, I don’t think he’s done anything serious to Ben. The symptoms didn’t worry the consultant last night. But please let me know what they say this morning. I’ll keep my phone switched on at all times.’
*
I catch a bus from Archway and go home briefly to wash and change. I put my thick winter boots on, then walk through the snow down to the office. Fortunately, we’ve woken this morning to just a couple of inches, and the regular Saturday traffic is moving with ease down the Holloway Road. I let myself into the office and run up the stairs to my room.
My iPad is on the desk where I left it yesterday. Here in this room, it’s as though time has stood still. I can picture Ellie, sitting in the chair opposite my desk, all bundled up in her fur-lined parka. I can hear Matt’s voice as he appears from behind the door to ask me to go to Holborn. It’s less than twenty-four hours since I was last sitting at this desk, in this office, clutching my polystyrene cup of deli soup, the heat warming up my cold fingers. But now it feels like a lifetime ago.
I pick up my iPad and place it into my bag before flicking on my computer monitor and opening the web browser. I roll my chair forward and type in ‘George Barrington-Brown’. As I suspected, there’s nothing – his life pre-dated the days of the internet and was too short to have made him stand out in any way. Next, I type in ‘local newspaper Esher Surrey’ and select the Esher News and Mail. I soon find a number of photos of Lord and Lady Barrington-Brown and even some group ones of the family and of their estate – Grove Park – including some early photos of Jay as a child. But there are none of George and there is no mention of him, either.
Next, I type into the search engine: ‘Records of births, marriages and deaths’. There are a number of hits, but one particular website stands out: genesandarchives.com. Not long after my mother’s death I’d spent some time on this website, researching my family’s genealogy and my maternal bloodline in particular. It had felt comforting to know that I was part of something much bigger than myself. In spite of the gaping hole my mother had left in my life,
I still had that long line of ancestors to look to; I still belonged somewhere, even though the most important person in my life was gone.
I open up the website and tap in my user name and password. My login is successful and my family tree appears. I blink hard and fight back tears as I see my mother’s name sitting there on the screen in front of me inside a little box: Evelyn Louise Kellerman, née Mayfield. Sept 1956–Jan 2012. I thought you’d been looking out for me, I reprimand her, silently. I thought you were guiding me. How could you have let me get it all so very wrong?
I close down my family tree and start a new one. I type in ‘James Alexander Barrington-Brown’ and then ‘Eleanor Barrington-Brown’ and finally ‘George Barrington-Brown’ into the search engine. A list of names appears and I scroll down until I’ve found them all, George and Jay appearing one above the other.
George Charles Barrington-Brown, I read, before opening up his entry. The record of birth appears, but that’s it. There’s no record of death anywhere to be seen. I sit, looking at the screen for a moment, before trying again. Maybe there’s more than one George Barrington-Brown and I’ve picked the wrong one. I scroll back to the entries for both George and Jay and open Jay’s. The date of birth is the same as it is for George: Aug 1976.
It’s definitely the right George. I stare at the screen in bewilderment for a moment. Have I got this all wrong? Could George still be alive? Did his parents in fact put him in a care home somewhere? Has Jay lied to me, yet again? But then I recollect his anguish – the voice racked with pain, the uncontrollable heaving of his shoulders, the guttural sobs that had escaped from his throat when he’d told me that he had been responsible for his brother’s death. Why would he tell me George was dead if he wasn’t?
I gaze from George’s entry to Jay’s for a moment, and then I remember that there is a way to search for death by record of birth. I find the page and enter the birth date of August 1976. If Jay was telling the truth – about this part, at least – it would have been 1981 or 1982 when George died. I enter a range from August 1981 through to August 1982 and scroll down, but nothing. There’s no entry for a George Barrington-Brown.
I scroll back up through the entries again and look through the names more carefully. There’s more than one George in the list, but not the one I’m looking for and the middle names are all wrong. I’m just about to exit the page when one of the names grabs my attention. There’s no middle name. It says, simply, George Kent. Parish: Claygate, Esher. I stare at it for a moment. How likely is it that two children named George died at the age of five, in the same year, within the same parish?
I open it up and read, George Kent. Born: Aug 1976. Died May 1982. Could this be the same George I’m looking for? But these are the only available details. There’s nothing more, unless... I glance down. Underneath the index, there are several more hyper-links. I scroll through them until I see what I’m looking for. Here it is: Order a copy death certificate for above-named entrant. It costs twenty pounds. Other than the money, I’ve nothing else to lose. It’s worth a go. The certificate will show both the person registering the death and the cause of death. When I see it, I’ll know if this is the right one. I click on the link and follow the instructions, updating my PayPal details and choosing the express option, a four-day service with the option of an emailed black-and-white scan of the original certificate before it’s dispatched.
I log off the website and switch off my monitor. I pick up my bag and fetch my coat from the hook on the back of the door. Why would George have been given the surname ‘Kent’ instead of Barrington-Brown, the name he was born with, I wonder? Unless the family really were trying to cover up his death, to hide him away? And why ‘Kent’? Where did that name come from?
All of a sudden, it hits me. My heart begins to race. I’ve come across that surname before, and now I know why.
I sit back down and switch on my monitor, logging onto the website again with trembling fingers. I click on the Barrington-Brown family tree and find Eleanor’s entry. I then click on the hyper-link next to it and search through the record of marriages until I find the one I’m looking for: June 1974. The marriage of Rt. Hon. Lord Anthony George Barrington-Brown. My heart is hammering against my chest. Before I’ve even read it, I know what I’m going to see underneath. And there it is, in black-and-white: Dr Eleanor Anne Kent, daughter of Dr Robert Fitzroy Kent FRCS.
Dr Kent.
I clap both hands to my mouth and breathe in sharply. For one long moment, I’m immobile with shock. Slowly, I pull my keyboard towards me and tap the name into the Google search engine, Anna’s words, when she handed me the case, tumbling simultaneously through my mind: Father’s a life peer and mother’s from a family of doctors. Her father’s an Old Etonian, a fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons.
A list of web pages comes up. I click on images, and there she is. There’s no doubt about it: Eleanor Barrington-Brown and Dr Eleanor Anne Kent are one and the same person. Eleanor is Dr Kent, the locum doctor who was on Peregrine Ward that night, the one who was recognised by the agency nurse, Stacey Bennett. The police officer and CCTV operators must have either missed her, or dismissed her as irrelevant to the police enquiries, because she either used her medical credentials or a lanyard and fob to legitimately enter the ward – Jay’s lanyard and fob, no doubt.
I reach for my phone and then immediately change my mind. It’s not enough; I still can’t prove any of this. Mary’s evidence is gone and my hunch is no more than that – a hunch. I can’t prove, beyond all reasonable doubt, that Eleanor Barrington-Brown is the Dr Kent, that she was on the ward that night, or even if she was, that she did anything wrong. I have to find evidence this time, hard solid evidence. But there’s still one person who knows far more than they’re letting on.
*
I take a taxi to Camberwell. I don’t dare take the underground, for fear of being out of range when Anna calls. I text her once I’m seated in the cab, heading along Upper Street towards Angel. She texts back: Ben awake but woozy. Still no sign of doctors, but all fine. Tim says hi.
I ask the taxi driver to stop at the bottom of the High Street. I cross Eastfield Road and tread carefully through the grey, melting slush that covers the estate, looking around me all the while to see if either Darren or Marie might be around somewhere, watching me from the seat of a car, perhaps, or from the park across the road. As I climb the steps to Cedar Court and walk along the balcony to number 36B, it flashes through my mind how much easier this would be if I were a police officer instead of a defence lawyer – if I could yell, ‘Open up. Police!’ and have Marie come out with her hands up in the air.
I tap on the glass of her front door and wait. There’s no answer. I lean over the balcony to see if anyone might have appeared below, someone who might know where she is. I pull my phone out of my pocket; it’s twelve o’clock. The pubs will be open. Maybe I should be brave and venture down to the Camby Arms.
As I turn back round again, I notice that the net curtain in the kitchen window has been pulled up in the flat next to Marie’s, the other side to Ellie’s, and the same elderly woman’s face appears, the one who’d been watching me the last time I came. She screws up her eyes and peers at me intently for a moment, as if she’s trying to work out who I am. When she sees me looking at her, she drops the curtain back down.
I give Marie’s door a second tap. As I do so, my phone rings.
It’s Anna. ‘All fine,’ she says. ‘The consultant was happy. Ben’s remaining blood tests came back normal; they didn’t detect any sign of infection or anything untoward and his observations have been good all night, so they said he can go home.’
I breathe a huge sigh of relief. ‘That’s great, Anna. Thank you. And – thank God. It could have been so much worse.’
I give her a quick run-through of Ben’s favourite Teletubbies DVDs, along with a reminder of how to switch the computer on, which web browser to use, and the things that she can give Ben to eat and drink.
/> The call-interrupt function bleeps in my ear. ‘I’ve got to go,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll ring you later to see how you’re getting on.’
The call is from Ellie. ‘Where are you?’ she demands.
‘I’m... well, I’m...’
‘Marie’s just rung me. She says you’re outside her flat.’ Ellie’s voice is indignant.
‘Yes,’ I admit. ‘I am. Is she at home, then? Can you get her to come out and speak to me?’
‘No. She’s not happy, Sarah. She says you’re stalking her and that she’s going to call the police. I think you’d better go.’
‘OK,’ I tell her, reluctantly.
Ellie’s voice softens a little. ‘Thanks for trying,’ she says. ‘But like I said, she’s not going to help, Darren or no Darren. She says she’s done nothing wrong, and that’s that. She wants you to leave her alone.’
‘OK.’
‘So you’ll leave her alone?’
I sigh. ‘Yes. I’ll leave her alone.’
‘OK. I’ll see you on Monday.’